


i've seen that look in your eyes  and it makes me go blind

by mussings_over_tea



Category: Tennis RPF
Genre: But also, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, and basically what do you mean this didn't happen in the locker rooms, final that we deserved haha made me super horny for this so, i also haven't written sex for them for some time and rewatching wimby 19, i kinda came full circle with this one and i know it feels, like all the rest of the fics with them but let me have this resolution, of UST RIVALS ??? what's here to be convinced about, or esoteric metapors LOL, some ppl are not convinced and i'm like but they are textbook example, that's my medicine, ultimate rivalry of modern tennis i can't read
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-17
Updated: 2020-05-17
Packaged: 2021-03-03 04:55:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,578
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24239146
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mussings_over_tea/pseuds/mussings_over_tea
Summary: To the winner belong the spoils.  Or what happened in the locker rooms after /that/ Wimbledon'19 match.
Relationships: Nick Kyrgios/Rafael Nadal
Comments: 2
Kudos: 13





	i've seen that look in your eyes  and it makes me go blind

**Author's Note:**

> recommended background for this is:  
> a) rewatching that ROUND 2 between them (that is basically a foreplay to this, haha)  
> b) Ruelle's "Madness" at some point shuffled for me to set the scene for this one nicely  
> c) Nick's manic laughter whenever Rafa pounds the ball particularly good (which happens often and loudly) (hmm, he has all these reactions to his opponents' tennis but this one is only for Rafa, cool cool cool)

Rafa sees red. He thinks he can taste it too on his tongue. Metallic. Thick. Sweet. His skin is wet (post-match sweat? or adrenaline still filling up his body). There’s buzzing underneath. Hum of a machine or purr of a creature. (Hunger or thrill).

A bull.

Enraged.

He won, didn’t he? He taught Nick a lesson. He made them even after Acapulco. There was a scar in him before, not visible. Deep inside him, taunting that creature to life, at night, when Mery was asleep and he fought being awake, skin tight, sweating. Like he’s running a fever. The dreams followed, if he did manage to doze off. The dreams in which he chases, he sinks his horns in a body, he spills blood and that body bends willingly in his arms for him to have, to take, to claim. He wakes up aroused, thinks, he remembers a chilling cackle. Manic laughter of something inevitable. A foreboding of destiny. Cold shower sobers him up. He refuses to use a hand on himself. He feels dirty enough the entire day after nights like this. Waking up by her side, soon to be his wife, hard and needy for this strange intimate violence in his head? She brings him green tea to his morning toasts with her mouth leaving kiss on his forehead and he feels like throwing up.

He thinks it’s that scar. That residue of the loss in Mexico. Yes, he lost many times. Yes, this title was special to him. But Nick left that scar and it was festering and it was cursing him with unwanted visions and eerie desires, tearing him apart inside.

Wimbledon draw came as turmoil of relief and anxiety. The prospect of meeting him, fighting for the win to cleanse himself. A glimmer of hope for release. But he would have to go through that fight first. An echo of sinister cackling sent chills down his spine. A foreboding of destiny.

He won, didn’t he? The scar remains, though. He’s been hunting out there, he’s been raging, wanting to draw blood, wanting to taste it. And he does now. And it’s not enough.

For everyone to see.

For everyone to know.

It’s like waking up from that dream, skin tight, heat inside scorching him, to meet Mery’s judging eyes, to see disgust on her face. Did they see? Did they have judgment and disgust for him? Did they know what this is about? Does he himself know?

He’s stomping to the locker rooms, hoping Nick’s gone, hoping he can have that cold shower, to sober himself, to bask in the feeling of baptism or purification this win should be to him. Delude himself into it rather.

But Nick hasn’t left. He looks like he’s been waiting, wearing white, looking pure, innocent. But to Rafa, he’s all red. Thick, metallic, sweet. That’s where he will find the taste. That’s how he will find release for the feeling of buzzing need inside him.

By sinking into him because by winning with him? He’s that willing body he hunts in his dreams through tennis, yes? So why he still yearns, insatiable?

He clenches his hand, almost growling out loud as he stops mid step, dropping his bags on the floor and facing that foreboding destiny in this confined space, with no net, no stretching grass between them any more.

Nick’s smirking. Like he knows a secret. A solution to healing Rafa. To making the festering scar disappear, along with the fever, dreams and feeling hijacked.

“Will you claim your reward?” the choice of word almost tastes on Rafa’s tongue. Like he already spills that sweet thickness.

He pretends he doesn’t understand the implication. “What you talking about, Nick?”

The response is quick and doesn’t leave any room for doubts. Nick starts taking off his clothes. Pulls his shirt over his head, gets rid off his shorts. His skin is now clad in his tight underwear, a stunning contrast of Wimbledon white to his natural shade. Rafa’s mouth waters. His throat is bone dry. The fever spikes. The growl builds inside his throat.

“Tough luck, yeah? I didn’t get to kill the bull. The toreador’s cornered. So, I’m all yours, si?” and the underwear does follow (Rafa feels angry, Rafa feels possessive, he wanted to unwrap him from these layers, he wanted to hunt the pray and sink his claws in and pull and tear and have for himself, everything, all of him, pliant and submitting). Dark skin shines with shin of post match sweat (Rafa did draw from him) as Nick heads for the showers, naked, a lure, for a predator to end up in a trap, with thrown casually. “You coming?” like an obvious truth, that has been eluding Rafa all this time.

The scar is about tennis, yes? The scar bleeding inside him is about the loss, isn’t it? It’s about setting the score. It’s about feeling strong and in control of the racket and progressing in the rounds of a most prestigious slam.

Is it?

He’s moving, like pulled by a thread. An answer to his inner storm. Heat rising, skin stretching. The fever’s there, but his body seeks to cover the distance between them like a cold compress.

That chilling laughter seals the inevitable. The laughter that meets him in the cabins. Nick’s under the stream of water, now whole wet and shining for the taking and he’s openly cackling, the sound straight from Rafa’s dreams. A prophecy fulfilling. Now, he must sink into the pray. Now, he must feast.

The water doesn’t bring relief when he gets under it. The touch of Nick’s skin under his hands does, when he moves to him, a pure instinct, pull of the hunt. Rafa’s hands on his shoulder fit there so well and Nick’s moving with gravity, like that body in his dreams going limb and pliant in his arms.

“What did you do, Nick? What did you do?” Rafa’s mumbling, asking to be healed. Asking to see clearly again, but moving them from under water, pushing Nick against the wall, mouthing to that chestnut shade he wants to devour. Feel its thickness. Feel its sweetness.

“I lost to you and to the winner belong the spoils, Raf,” he can feel Nick touching him, digging his fingers into Rafa’s hipbones. Doing his own claiming, too.

“I won. That’s it. Is tennis we play and is the reward enough,” he sounds unconvincing, maybe even keening to the crook of Nick’s neck now. Tasting. Knowing. The thickness and sweetness is real. For him to drink, to have, to devour on.

“Do you feel like you got your reward?” Nick’s changing their position, now pinning Rafa to the wall. “Not yet, but you will,” grazing the path from Rafa’s earlobe down his neck to his chest where he pauses, where he purrs and chuckles, fingers join in, marking the ownership. “This is where I was aiming,” he talks about that shot, aimed to bruise, aimed to distraught Rafa. (It did. He double faulted. The fever was burning in him, the tennis game brought no relief to it.) He did bruise. The scar remained. The scar _remains_. “I missed, or did I?” now Nick’s mouth is caressing the spot, worshipping an invisible spot of the foreboding destiny between them. Knowing he didn’t really miss. Knowing he pulls the strings and tightens the noose. Whenever they play now. Whenever they meet on court.

He moves lower, going to his knees for Rafa, looking up, eyes glinting with purpose, lips stretched in that all-knowing smile. Rafa bites on whimpers. The image is thick and sweet and heavy inside him. The image he won’t forget. The image that will take over the dreams of the hunt. “This is where I didn’t miss, yeah?” he kisses the hipbone, his stomach and a thigh before he takes Rafa into his mouth, relentless, unapologetic, greedy, like he was on court today. Like he always is with Rafa.

Rafa bends for him, even though it’s Nick who’s on his knees, paying tribute. Clutching Nick’s hair, fingers digging into his nape, pushing him closer, pushing him away, no, everything, nothing, stop, never stop. It feels like the medicine for the scar of restlessness inside him. Pieces falling into place. The warmth of Nick’s mouth around him, sucking him in, Rafa sinking deeper, feeling the back of his throat, vibrating through chuckles of satisfaction that gather there. Satisfaction to have his cock almost chocking Nick.

The series of curses and holy names in Spanish get to him lagged and like through a fog. But he does hear them and they are fitting. To the situation. This blasphemy. He refuses to look down and see the image (sanctimonious perfection of it). His body acts released from shackles as he moves to Nick’s conduct, thrusts deeper, sinks more into that maddening heat. The medicine.

“Look at me, Raf,” his voice sounds hoarse and low and thick and heavy. Sweetness addicting. When he demands. Hands still busy on Rafa’s cock, still pulling strings, with words purred to his thigh, where the mark (that scar) should be.

Of this.

Of them.

Nick under his skin now taking him apart.

Shouldn’t it be the other way round? Is Nick not his trophy?

“Look at me, see and never forget,” and Rafa dares to and Rafa does see, Nick’s eyes heavy-lidded, his mouth moist from the taste. Nick looks high. Like he’s wanted it the entire time just like Rafa wanted the medicine. To be free from the scar. From restlessness pushing him to hunt, to tear, to drink from that eager body.

Or to try it once and to not want anything else ever again.

There’s moment of strange tenderness, before storm follows. Rafa strokes his cheek, traces this mouth pleasuring him so well with gratitude, with maybe even adoration. Nick chases the touch, with cheek leaning to that palm, smile from greedy becoming serene as he closes his eyes and soaks it in. “Hmmm, remember, this is what we are about. This is why we play each other. This is what we are together,” he hums, hands palming Rafa’s shaft, tongue gliding the crown. Like Rafa’s his reward, too. Like they find reward in each other like this. Filthy, wet, heated, needy.

So the tenderness becomes storm as he pulls Nick’s hair, making him whimper, making him show his throat eagerly (Rafa thinks his teeth grow sharper at the image). He grunts. “Stand up, Nick.”

The response is immediate. God. You need to beat this boy into submission on court and he goes willing and pliant like that off it. Not entirely. Of course. It’s Nick. He slides his entire body upwards, catching all the right angles, making them meet warmth for warmth, hardness for hardness (he’s dripping in need just from the taste, the heat in Rafa pulses in his head with red beneath his eyelids, having realized this). And then he whispers to the corner of Rafa’s mouth. “Wanna taste yourself on me?” The possibilities knock the breath off him as the grunt becomes growl resembling the one he does on court, when he handles Nick’s fierce shots.

“Later,” he takes a handful of Nick’s hair and forces him away, with his sinful mouth, warm breaths and taunting whispers. Stirring red. Stirring thick sweetness he has yet to gorge on. “To the winner belong the spoils, si?” he repeats, voice firm, a reminder of what this is about. Nothing else. It doesn’t mean anything else. A clean cut medicine, yes?

He still waits for confirmation. Not trusting himself. Fever running high inside him, that transformation into thirsty creature from his dream has begun.

“That’s exactly right. Raf,” the confirmation comes, on these lips redder than blood he longs for and in these eyes shining with lust and eagerness, like a boy offered a treat, sharing it now. Jesus. “I’m yours to do whatever you want with me.”

Rafa does. The avalanche of lava melts him from the inside and he stops thinking altogether. Forgets where they are, who they are, what they are supposed to be doing. He only knows that pull from the court between them, making him want to chase, tear apart, feed and have. He remembers the sounds Nick’s making, the moans, the manic laughter, he wants to hear them, hear them again, here, when he peels him off everything and has the very core of him for himself. Finally. He only knows the feeling of relief that comes from Nick’s skin beneath his hands (made for him) and the warmth of Nick’s body, healing the scar, placating that raging feeling of incomplete. 

So Rafa turns Nick around, with fingers gripping his hips, to hear the sighs already. Nick’s body seems moulded to fit his hands (like the shots they aim at each other seem to be). Rafa settles behind him, letting him know, letting him feel the want inside him now running free. To finally have. Teasing him with his cock against his rim (like pieces of them were designed to fit) to see Nick respond, bend for more, with shaking moans leaving his mouth, too. Curses around Rafa’s name, nonsense he spilled on court before. For attention. To get them here. To set the trap.

“Fuck, mhhmmmm, you take so much time out there and you’re a straight to the point guy after all,” he sounds weak as his hands wonder to stroke himself, with hips moving shamelessly to meet Rafa’s hardness. To feel him more. To have him plunge into him.

Rafa stops him. Takes his hands in a firm grip, tsks under his breath disapprovingly. “No, no, no, no. I am the winner. I take. I have. The spoils,” he spells it out with teeth on the juncture of Nick’s neck. “You, si?” to be rewarded with a long, low moan, the exact echo of the one Nick does on court. “And patience is a lesson there and here, too. Good things come when you wait, Nick.”

He puts Nick’s hands above his head, against the wall, keeping the grip of his there (thinking about tying him up, later, some time, Jesus, he thinks about next time, he wants next time, the growl inside him is a pure hunger, pushing away the voice of judgment completely). With his other hand he trails back to Nick’s hips, leaving his print (like he would on a trophy). Then the fingers get busy inside Nick, swallowed by that maddening warmth, welcomed by it like he’s been waiting forever.

The sounds he’s making, intertwined with that feverish chuckle. God. Like they already did this. On court. When they play the match. Nick taunts him to lose control and Rafa does for everyone to see. He won’t let anyone see him here.

Exposed.

Hunting this boy down to learn that he’s at his mercy in the end.

Like a confirmation, Nick sighs, sounding needy. “Fuck this, Raf. Just do it. I wanna be sore. I wanna feel this. Tomorrow, the entire week. Feel you. Like you will. Like you always does after our matches, don’t you?” mocking giggle is back, like retribution to Rafa, with Nick’s body pliant and melting in his hands, thrusting back to the conduct of his fingers inside.

“Shut up, Nick. No more words from you,” or really, no more the truth, bare, exposing, visceral truth, Rafa tries to bury now, pushing into Nick with his cock, rendering him wordless indeed. The words become ramble of a prayer or a tribute. A symphony of skinned lust. Sounds ripe with raw need to be fulfilled.

It happens exactly like it does on court. Nick taunted him here, with his flares, with his traps, with his nudges and shoves. Words, gestures, attitude. And Rafa’s raging. Rafa’s ramming into him with abandon, one hand keeping him trapped, fingers digging deep into that warm, thick, sweet skin, the other, pulling on his hips, as if he even needs it, as if Nick doesn’t meet him halfway with desperate, wanting rocking movement on his own. Rafa’s raging, but Rafa’s at his mercy, letting himself be provoked. Letting himself sink deeper and deeper into him, body and soul, the scar inside him bleeding out, the scar inside him an open wound now.

He will never not want this again. Jesus.

“It doesn’t mean anything, it doesn’t mean anything,” he repeats in English and in Spanish, chants of that fever running inside him, making his blood boil. Pleading the fate to let him go after this. To let him sleep. Let him forget.

Nick’s cackle is all the response he gets (the truth uncovered). Low, thick sound from his dream. The symphony of inevitable.

_You will always remember. You will never forget. You will never not want me now when you got a taste._

So Rafa dives even deeper, drills into him, leaving his marks, letting Nick’s hands go to pump on his cock, that’s wet and dripping, a testimony of how much it means, how much it stains them. The sounds Nick’s making are deafening and Rafa thinks of flipping him over to shut him up. With his tongue. With his own mouth. God. To drink even more of that thick, sweet taste. To swallow the truth and keep it inside him, so that it never see the light. So that no one could ever know. _Dios. Por favor._

He doesn’t. It’s dangerous. It would be close to that tenderness from before. Now drown by hunger and violence.

All they are on court anyway.

So what he does, is bite Nick’s shoulder, earning a loud whine, cascading into keening whimpers and Nick’s body following as he comes into Rafa’s hand, spasming around his cock and taking Rafa with him. Rafa makes no sound but he feels wetness in his eyes as he closes them, to pretend not to see, to push it away, reject the reality.

Denial.

How he spills inside Nick, the feeling of orgasm all he knows now, all the reality he recognizes. He can’t deny. How he’s clinging to Nick, too, no more dreams of a willing body. This body is inside his arms. Claimed. His. His. His. How he’s mouthing the mark he left on his skin (his teeth there, for how long?, pride merges with lust, wringing even more high from him, to paint more of Nick’s skin with his cum).

“Fuck. Jesus. Fuck me,” Nick breathes heavily, like after their rally. Mumbles it into Rafa’s cheek, trying to turn around, with mouth parted, like an invitation, like a temptation. Like reviving tenderness between them, on that field of smoke, ashes and blood poured.

This mouth is the first thing Rafa sees when he opens his eyes and he wants so much all over again. Almost gives in. A ghost of a kiss, tasting warm breath, or that mewl Nick does maybe shaping around Rafa’s name. There’s laziness of bones and liquidness of body after orgasm that makes them stay still like that, wrapped around each other, Rafa’s hands on Nick’s stomach with their fingers laced. Rafa’s cock still inside him. How about that for denial. Nothing more real. Nothing more perfect.

They almost nuzzle, with Nick mumbling his hoarse. “Fuck, if you teaching me patience leads to this, think what we could do on court together, with lessons or some shit.”

This breaks the stillness. Maybe even comfort between them.

It’s an intimate call, Nick makes. A plea, almost.

Rafa pulls away, the feeling of slipping away from Nick leaves his knees weak (seeing his cum trail down his thighs, bringing out shade of his skin, like markings of claiming the spoils, his teeth marks, fingerprints, speak about it, too).

The scar is inside him. Unhealed. He tamed the ache for now but he can sense the residue of it under his tissue. A cut that went deep, still on the surface, still recognizable and felt.

“It doesn’t mean anything, Nick. I said. You know this. You know, it doesn’t,” he wants to stay in the water, cleanse himself of all the traces of what happened here. Of what sticks to his entire being. Stays in the core of him. Wants to see the traces wash off Nick, too. The lines of cum (like chains or ropes on Nick) stirring that pool of heat inside him, thinking of taking him again. This time, to see his face. This time, to kiss his mouth. Jesus.

He’s moving, away, far away (running, no, a bull doesn’t run, a bull sometimes withdraws when it anticipates the trap. Except he already fell into one, did he?).

Nick’s laughter, manic, triumphant, haunting laughter, tells him that he did. He fell into a trap. The scar persists. It’s going to bring the fever back, along with the dreams and in those dreams, sounds, feelings, longings. Along with that laughter reminding him he will never be free of this.

Until next time they play tennis.

Until next time they meet like this to claim the spoils again. 

Nick has no words for him (as told) but this baring them both laughter that echoes in the cabin, in the lockers, Rafa thinks, in the entire city. Flashes of wet, marked skin and gleeful look in his eyes as he turns around to watch Rafa go (run), to judge Rafa’s withdrawal (submission). Eyes gleaming with a promise. With inevitable.

_Until next time._


End file.
